From: Beth Fulton <beth.fulton@m...>
Date: Fri, 29 Jan 2010 13:33:30 +1100
Subject: [GZG] Fiction -
G'day, Latest story from Jock. Its a wee bit of a filler before we get back into the campaign proper. Cheers Beth > [quoted text omitted] In Memoriam After the recent attack in Marin most of the 2/34 had been pulled back to San Juan and from there evacuated to Henna Dimashq, a large Martian city to the north of Coprates Chasma. Like many Martian settlements it is built in a crater, with the original settlement right in the centre and agricultural land in a ring around that. This city had become a hub for local commerce however and there were extra urban districts in large notches in the crater wall both east and west. A smaller area in the southwestern rim had become a fairly well established military base. It wasn¹t the wholesale requisition that had effectively occurred in Nirgal, but it was still an extensive presence. Here many of the worst of the wounds could be patched up and everyone could get some R&R. Some of the most critically wounded would never be returning to combat, though the Seige of Sol meant they wouldn¹t be shipping straight home either. They could help out in a desk position or try and find some other job. Young Gary Lewis was talking about becoming a VR pilot now some of the booster stations along the new Margaritifer Line were up and running again. I didn¹t think he¹d live let alone be thinking of still fighting the Kra¹Vak, but the fight in these kids is amazing. As for me I¹ve chosen to return too. I was given the option of calling it quits after I took the slug to my throat. It went in just under my chin and came back out through my cheek. Busted my jaw up. It still aches a bit, but all is ok now. They even grew me some new teeth. So I¹ll be going back in with the 2/34 when they return to the Tokalau Isthmus. Today however, we have a more solemn purpose. We¹re here to remember the fallen. We¹re sitting at the top of the parade ground in Camp Henna. I can see crowds of civilians snaking back down the crater wall to the big cathedral down in the old quarter. Martians have such a different take on things. At home there would be black and flowers and tears. Not so here. Well not completely. There will be tears, but the place is a riot of colour. These people come from families used to battling the elements, scraping a living. They celebrate life no matter how short or how it ended. ³Jock.² Iron George nods, as he pulls up a chair by me. He plants his feet, legs spread akimbo, his walking stick balancing across his knees. ³Guday shir.² I slur, the mobility of my healing jaw still hindered by the braces clamped around it to hold it in place as it knits. Turning to look at him I can see that Baxter¹s face is ashen, his eyes sharp edged and glittery, his jaw is rolling. ³Shir?² ³Shit start to the day.² He says quietly, eyes locked on to the far distance. ³Lost Higgs and Al this morning.² ³But I shought Al wash doing well² I protested incredulously. ³Yeah I know. Why the fuck is it always ones with kids?² he asked, raw grief evident in his quiet tone. I didn¹t know what else to say, so we lapsed into silence, there starring off into the distance, consumed by our individual thoughts. * * * I first met Sergeant James Wilson Higgs VC in the sandbagged ops room in the compound at Marin. He had this way of leaning up against the back wall keeping a quiet but vigilant eye on everything. He also seemed to have this sixth-sense of when something was about to go wrong. He could read the real time 3D projections of the battlefield better than anyone else I knew. Iron George included. Some of the feed for the projections came from unmanned drones that roamed overhead, others from sensors on high altitude balloons. For the very fine scale detail needed in close combat specialist handlers on site released nanite OEmotes¹. When I asked him how he knew he asked if I played music, when I said no, he asked if I water rafted. Again no. He asked if there was anything that I did that was especially my thing. Football is my thing. ³How long¹ve you been playing?² ³Nearly twenty years.² ³Any good?² ³Kinda. Not that skilled.² ³But can you read the play? Know that the opposition is going in that hole or that your winger will be by the far post?² ³Yeah, I can do that ok.² ³Same thing. You can just read what¹s going to happen, it flows past and you just feel it. Nothing conscious necessarily, you just know.² Zen battle fighting. ³Very Jedi.² ³Can tell you¹re a lit major mate. I had to watch those things in high school. Remastered but they never really got it, no holo depth at all. Not a patch on Khorramshahr Campaign series. Now that was story telling!² Despite his disparaging words, turns out Sergeant Higgs was an avid vid buff and we spent many hours breaking the boredom of deployment discussing vids or exploring the contents of each other¹s OEcasters. The laid back persona, soft drawl and easy smile hid a fairly serious combatant. A significant asset in the ops room he was also a very professional soldier in the field. I remember one action in the core industrial district to the north of the compound. We would have walked straight into a major ambush if Higgs hadn¹t figured it out and sent us roofward instead. He got us set up in amongst some energy vanes and put the snipers from recon platoon up on some water towers. Then by jury-rigging a field server he slaved the spec feed and coordinated fire down along about 1500m of the Kra¹Vak¹s planned kill zone. Starting with coordinated launches of grenades and IAVRs to flush them out of their forward positions and then using SAWs and machine-guns to OEwalk¹ the Kra²Vak back away from our position. When one of the gunners went down he took over that position and still didn¹t miss a beat in his directions. I have this beautiful still of him, feet braced against the building edge, intent expression, mid-command, eyes alive, arms tight as he wrestled the MG, casings collecting in a small mountain around him. That was an intense firefight. The Kra¹Vak came back in full force, followed close on their heels by the telltale early signs of a major dust storm. We needed to extricate ourselves quickly. Amidst the clouds of dust and enemy fire Higgs called in for an evac by VTOL. It felt like an age later, but was really only minutes when a gunship took up position above us, sitting up high trying to keep the way clear for a troop-carrying variant of the Mantis to come in and get us. The Mantis couldn¹t land on the roof - the clear space between the clutter of towers and vanes was too small for its bulkier body. So it came in low and the able bodied had to leap onto a cargo net they¹d rolled out the loading ramp and then clamber up. If that wasn¹t hard enough with the enemy still firing on our position, it was jinking to-and-fro to make it hard for any rocket toting Kra¹Vak. Even the few guys who were hit but still ambulatory went up that way. When it go to the two seriously wounded though Higgs waved away the cargo net and pointed away back toward the compound. For a heart stopping second I thought he was telling them to leave him and the seriously wounded behind, but then he must have been in direct link with the pilot because the VTOL slid over to the camp-wise roof edge and hovered landing ramp down, backed into the building. Higgs shouldered the wounded gunner first and then sprinted full pelt at the VTOL, slugs flying around his high profile, and as he reached the roof edge he kept right on coming, leaping into the VTOL with his final strides. After laying the man on his shoulders in the back of the VTOL, Higgs turned round and went back for the other man. Sprinting back out of the VTOL, back across the roof (bent double but still an attractive target), bloody body onto his shoulders and then back again for that final leap onto the VTOL. Just as his boots hit the ramp we were rocked by some kind of hit and the VTOL whanged into the building hard. I thought we were going down and that the Sergeant would topple out. Instead Higgs hurled himself forward into the body of the transport. He and the man he¹d been carrying ended in a bloody mess by the rear seating, but he¹d saved them from a fall to their deaths. He was quickly on his feet though as it was clear something was badly wrong with the VTOL, which was shuddering and grating against the building. Higgs slid his way back to the loading ramp where the loadmaster was perched on the edge of the ramp, hanging one armed from straps above his head and pointing down off the ramp to the wall. He was obviously yelling, but with the wall of noise that filled the VTOL I couldn¹t make out what he was saying. To my utter disbelief, Higgs grabbed the MG, slung his feet through the cargo net and then his upper body and the gun disappeared over the edge of the ramp. I could see his body judder, so I guessed he was firing. Five short bursts from what I could tell. The VTOL shot forward, nearly sending Higgs and the net careening out over the ramp, but we were free. The loadmaster and Pancho pulled Higgs back in as we rose and then zigzagged our way between buildings back to the compound. Just watching that my heart was racing so hard I never thought it¹d settle again. When we were back in the relative safety of the camp and the noise was confined to the usual raucous discussions and the background thud of explosions and mortar fire I sought out the loadmaster and asked what Higgs had done. Turns out the VTOL had been snagged on a fire escape so Higgs had used the MG to shear the balustrade clean off. I asked Higgs about it later too, he shrugged it off and simply said. ³You just get in and get shit done.² Losing Higgs meant that 2/34 was bereft of perhaps its finest soldier. To my mind at least they were all astounding, but Higgs was exceptional. This war was marked by any number of souls willing to put life on hold to rid us of the Kra¹Vak, this saw a level of dedication and on-going morale that made them the embodiment of professional soldiers. * * * ³Looks like we¹re on lad.² Baxter¹s words pulled me back from my thoughts. The Lt Col had risen to his feet and was watching his troops form up to lead the parade of mourners down to the memorial service in the cathedral. I rose and turned to make my way over to where the civilian marchers were gathering. ³No son. Come and with us², I looked at Baxter quizzically. ³You earned your place.² I was humbled and honoured to the point my throat constricted and I couldn¹t say a word. Following Baxter I moved over to the 2/34. He broke off to take up his position at the front, whereas I hung back intending to hide away amongst the rear ranks. I noticed a clutch of colt-limbed troops, laughing and wrestling over some hidden prize and darted over for a quick look. There was Turps, in a hover chair. He¹d been hit during the attack and had lost both his legs to a direct strike from a rocket while he¹d been manning the heavy MG in a sanger on the roof of the compound. He¹d been little more than a rag-doll torso when he¹d been airlifted out with almost no chance of survival. While he was still a little pale he seemed a long way from the maimed corpse-like body I had seen carried aboard the airship only a few weeks before. The friends he hadn¹t seen since were coming up, clapping him on the shoulder or tousling his hair. As ever he was talking fast to all around him, joking, showing off his new implants and graft points. ³They reckon it¹ll be about another seven weeks before the grafts are fully prepped and then snap they just click in my new legs² he said, cavalierly clicking his fingers with a big grin. ³They reckon I could even do the carta course for the forward combat artillery corp, get some mecha-link points.² His excitement was palpable. Instead of death or becoming a crippled shell he was actually turning his misfortune into an opportunity. OEGetting grafted¹ may be accepted part of some cultures now, but it¹s still typically not a life style choice too many in the main stream opt to follow. For one, it is typically prohibitively expensive, unless you do it for a job or you¹re willing to run the risk of lower grade goods. However, the war had created a demand for OEenhanced¹ bodies on the front line, in some of the most extreme environments. Consequently if you were willing, and deemed suitable, the options before you ran from the full spectrum from OEminimal enhancement¹ to OEcomplete conversion¹. ³And see this?² Turps said leaning forward and showing off a scar running up the back of his shaved head and in behind his ear. ³Neural graft and rear attachment for my new eye. How¹s this for freaky?² he glared almost imperceptibly and his pupil dilated and took on the hint of a dull almost black-red glow. CEV. Cybernetically enhanced vision. It seems he wasn¹t missing a trick. ³Oh nice frilly bra Cath² he said with a grin. ³I¹ll still knock your block off Turps, if you don¹t behave yourself!² That brought hearty laughs all round. This is perhaps one of the moments that exemplify this current war with the Kra¹Vak for me. It has been a long hard war. Its not just a conflict on some far off world between mercenaries and career professional soldiers, all boxed up and nice. It is dirty, frightening, horrific and universal. Yet it appears that our will is universal too. Despite all that they have experienced they can still laugh, feel the exhilaration of survival. Yes they are mightily aggrieved over the mates lost or injured, but they get on more determined than ever. They say their own kind of goodbyes, tell the odd joke, clean their weapons and get ready to go out and kill some more of those xenobastards. With a whistle from the CSM, all grew quiet and solemn and lined up ready to move out. The parade moved slowly down the ribbon of onlookers, who clapped and cheered, augmenting the beat of the military band. Then one of those odd Martian song-chants began - the words indistinguishable, but beginning low and maudlin, but slowly growing to fill you with a thrumming buzz of excitement. Once down in the Cathedral a familiar mix of funeral rituals were played out in honour of the latest group of fallen, to provide safe passage for their spirits and solace to the living. For some there were songs, others dances or symbolic rites, for many there were eulogies. Some sorrowful, some darkly humourous, most delivered by steel-eyed, rigid-jawed friends who chokingly tripped over feelings that went unspoken in life. People who had been inseparably tight knit, eating, sleeping, drinking, laughing together now dealing with being the remaining individual. Many hinted at grief to come when the fighting was all done. By the end of the service there was a strange mix of celebration and hard knots around your heart. I had been crying and looking to my left I saw that even Baxter had let a single tear run down his lined face. Looking right I spotted the CSM as he rose to speak, but his eyes were dry and his face was set in a mask of anger. He walked stiffly to the front, back ramrod straight. Turning sharply he gripped the podium straight armed, white knuckled, looking fixedly at his page before raising his head and explaining how this was the ³campaign of their lives², that he was ³immensely fuckin¹ proud of the courage they¹d all shown², that ³each death is a hole in our hearts that would never heal² and finally that ³they have not left us, they will be with us on each patrol and will stand behind us a silent source of inspiration as we keep fighting the Krek scum². Until then I¹d forgotten that Private Mitchell Clarke, killed by a Kra¹Vak slug to the throat, had been the already much decorated teenage son of the CSM. The lanky, blonde maned and always smiling kid had been so different to the bull-necked, tattooed and severe CSM, but he was a son who wouldn¹t be going home; a son who would be mourned deeply. The last to speak was Iron George, his deep gravely voice forcefully filling the cathedral. "They died as soldiers choose to die. Boots on, guns hot, shoulder-to-shoulder with their mates, defending our homes from an enemy that would consume us and end us once and for all. In the years to come, in the quiet moments of the day we will remember them. We will mourn them properly. For now though we have to continue the fight. We must continue to walk out and fight so that those who died did not die in vain. Our mission to clear the Kra¹Vak paitya from under every rock on Tokalau and from there the solar system and form there the Outworlds. The fallen we honour today would not have wanted it any other way. " I stayed in the background the rest of the day, watching, listening to the men and women, young and old, share their stories, share their grief. What I heard confirmed something I had long suspected. I had heard tales from my own father, who¹d served on Bradley in 2179, and I was on Kayleigh as a young TSNN correspondent in 2181 when Vortsheimer was over run by the LLAR mercenaries. Neither was a patch on this fight. This was a new kind of war.